Resident Evil: How Gods Are Born
by Dark Glass Marionette
Summary: He learnt about his creation, his childhood and more importantly, about himself. Now, Albert Wesker is about to meet the man that was behind it all; the man who raised for only one purpose: to become a god. This is his past, his present and his future.
1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:** Yesss, another fanfiction piece and one that had kept nagging at me for a very long time.

Maybe this is something different to what I normally write (nah, not really) but I was inspired to write this after seeing a file from (possibly; if it is, forgive my ignorance) Resident Evil 5. This piece focuses on somebody -aside from Wesker as you can see in the character section- who has now caught my interest and not much is know about: this person, if you allow me to tell you, is Alexander Wesker, the original Wesker of 'em all. Also, it's about Albert's past, which is also another intriguing matter.

Nothing much is known about Alexander as I have said, so I've allowed myself a bit of freedom to detail and craft his personality and appearance. You'll see I've made him a little bit complex and such, but it's up to you to tell me how well or how badly this interpretation of his persona is. Also, his relationship with Wesker must _not_ be like any other but it certainly isn't either like a father-and-son one; it's a bit more different and it's a mix between the two, or so I think.

You'll also see I've kept Wesker in character as much as possible but there will be some changes in his personality. No, I'm not saying he'll be OOC in moments, no; I'm referring to his reactions and his thoughts about the matter. I've allowed myself another bit of freedom and have pictured him in this hypothetical moment.

Another note (and I don't care it this is turning out too long): I am making reference to both an OC of mine and a story which involves that OC; it's called 'Evil Shadows', which I still have posted up in the site. Allow me to tell you that that story was merely experimental -let's say that- and it interferes with the canon line in every way possible (LOL!). Nevertheless, I'm also using my OC (later to be revealed) as another experiment; if Wesker had met her, what would've happened? Of course, it's merely hypothetical but this sticks to the canon, don't worry.

With nothing more to say, I leave you to read this. Enjoy!^^

**Disclaimer: I do not own Resident Evil (I've said this too many times). If it were mine, I would've made sure this would've happened and that Wesker wouldn't have died as miserably as he had xDDD (No offense, people).**

**Later to be rated T.  
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Resident Evil: How Gods Are Born

_Summary:__ He learnt about his creation, his childhood and more importantly, about himself. Now, Albert Wesker is about to meet the man that was behind it all; the man who raised for only one purpose: to become a god. This is his past, his present and his future._

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**November**** 15****th****, 2006**

**Unknown Location**

Wesker walked inside, the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights above him and the echo of his footsteps the only sounds that disturbed the silence. There was a reek of decay and death in the air, something that was quite unpleasant for his keen senses. The purposes of this building were completely unknown to him, but he knew that it had been used to kill, to _slaughter_ mercilessly as if the victims were nothing more than expendable things. The victims had been human… but that stench also revealed a clue he could not quite put his finger on… yet.

With a slow movement of his head, he examined the vast room he had just stepped into, taking in as much details as possible. To someone else's eyes the room was nothing more than a mere room with nothing much to pay attention to, but to him it was more than that; he could catch every single detail and for some reason, it was vaguely familiar. As he kept on looking, more and more things pieced themselves together in his mind, forming a puzzle that would soon reveal many things about him. As a first guess, he thought it was training ground.

A portion of floor at the centre of the room was delimited by four lines that formed a rectangle, their red colour faded and smeared to the sides due to the passing of time. The area was quite big, which confirmed his suspicions. To its left, there was a training course with poles, obstacles to jump and ledges to climb, these carved on the wall or being the top of vertical rocky walls, each one at a further distance from each other. Then, to the right and a good fifteen metres away from the rectangular area there was a wide open space, also rectangular, filled with surprisingly clear water to its rim.

He walked further in, placing himself in the centre of that area and looking around once more. The floor and almost all the walls in front and behind him were tattooed with blood, the smears now cold and faded but still as fresh as their first day they had touched the once white surface, now slightly green and of a dark lime colour because of the dirtiness and dampness of the place.

He crouched and ran his fingers along a crimson mark, shaking his head.

_What does this mean to__ me? h_e asked himself. _I feel lost in here, yet at the same time I sense this is like… a place I've long missed, even though it's in a state such as this. _

He shook his head once more, silent and thoughtful. Truth be told, he had never seen such a gore spectacle like the one he now had in front of his eyes. Why had he mentioned such a place to him? Was this going to reveal anything? Then, he moved his eyes to the training course a few metres away and voices started to echo in his ears, randomly becoming as undistinguishable as a cacophony.

"_Come on now, up on your feet!"… "If you keep going like this, you damned children, you will not accomplish anything!"… "__You're complete trash, worthless! Improve your deficit or die!"… "You are our pride; show some persistence!"… "You are to be a next generation of humans and this is all you have inside you?! You're pathetic!"…_

_I cannot bring myself to remember anything yet__._ _For now, it's all a cacophony. Recalling something not entirely is starting to bother me._

His brow creased ever so slightly.

_Whilst Spencer told me _something_ about myself, I don't think he told me all I was to know. I haven't found any other relevant information, so I have to say this man is the only source of information I have for now. _ _The only thing I need to do now is wait until he shows up, and I certainly hope he will._

If he was honest with himself, he was anxious. He wouldn't feel like this if it were some kind of negotiation or reunion with a contact or an acquaintance. This time, things were much more serious. This time, it was not a matter of negotiation or hatching plans: it was knowing about himself, knowing _who_ or _what_ he was.

Then he heard growls and snarls coming from the other side of the cavities left by missing doors, and he stood alert. As the animals approached, he could smell the stench of their rotten and sinewy flesh and when they showed, they revealed themselves as nasty looking, mutated Dobermans, the "Cerberus" BOW. Baring their teeth at them with ferocious snarls, they kept closing in on him.

"If this is some kind of test, I'll let you know I'm not quite up for it." He muttered under his breath, looking derisively at the creatures.

As if on cue, two of the dogs, one from each side, leaped towards him snapping their jaws open. His hand went instinctively to his shoulder holster, where his gun _should _have been before having left it at his place; the man who would provide him with information had specifically requested for him to come unarmed. This didn't cause him any surprise; with the mere feeling of the absence of his firearm, he quickly reacted with a swing of his leg and hit the dog on its face, almost breaking its neck.

Then, he didn't find much problems disposing of it and the remaining frenzied canines, only having to use his inhuman speed to dodge their bite and snap their necks with a loud crack. To achieve this, quickly enough to consider it had been a godly intervention, he moved and deftly kicked the remaining Cerberuses' bodies, granting them a swift yet painful death after the series of blows did their work. Once finished, another growl -this time much fiercer- interrupted the silence. The sound was unmistakeable: whatever had happened, a Tyrant was on the loose and heading his way. Indeed: after waiting a few seconds, he saw its massive figure cross the threshold and approach him with killing intent.

"I've faced many like you, so don't try to frighten me; you'll suffer the same fate as the rest."

Again as if on cue, the Tyrant focused on him and dashed towards him, keeping its talons low to impale his body. He rolled to her side, only to feel the Tyrant closing in on him once more. Afterwards, in just a blink of an eye, he was right behind the creature, having left his original position with only a black blur that rapidly disappeared. He rushed forward, focusing on the Tyrant's weak spot: its heart.

A direct approach certainly wasn't going to work but, thankfully, there were many other ways to skin a cat, even if it was a cat as big and persistent as this one. Keeping his distance and dodging its vicious slashes, he finally came up with a strategy that could do the trick -and as such being able to disregard having to focus on its heart. Once it slashed downwards again, he stepped on its claw and jumped to its shoulders, quickly flexing his knees and breaking the Tyrant's neck with another loud crack. The creature dropped to the ground with a loud noise, and Wesker just hopped off its back with ease.

"My, my, what a fight, Albert! I never thought I'd see you like this, truth be told."

His head perked up to the entrance behind him as he whirled around, immediately recognizing that voice. It had spoken with a cockney accent and was polite and soft enough to make you think he was mocking you. Then, the stranger stepped inside the room, a fact that didn't change Albert's expression of distrust.

"Are you the man that contacted me?" Wesker asked, keeping his voice low and wary. The stranger nodded slowly, keeping his gaze fixed upon him.

"I am," he simply responded. "I'm pleased to meet you."

"How do you know my name? I would remember having told you." he inquired.

_And he didn't mention the matter either._

The brown-haired man shrugged.

"I simply knew," he replied casually. "I have to ask a favour though before we start: would you be so kind of taking off those shades you have? I'd like to see how your eyes have changed." For a few instants, Wesker remained hesitant and the man, silent and patient.

_Hm... as much as it displeases me, we won't be getting anywhere if I don't do as he asked me; he does seem a persistant man after all, just as much as I am._

Surprisingly for the stranger, who had thought otherwise, Wesker revealed his gaze, his red eyes fixating the stranger with a cold and steely look. The man looked pleased.

"Amazing, certainly, quite on the contrary to what I expected. They're marvelous--"

"Skip the pleasantries and get straight to the point," Wesker said. "I don't think I came here to waste time on pointless chit-chat."

The stranger didn't smile. "Direct to the point, right Al?" he said almost teasingly. Wesker did and said nothing towards that nickname, but to be treated so lightly was something that did cause a pinch in his pride. Then, the man sighed.

"Well, I believe we could start taking things seriously indeed. You'd like to know who I am, what I want and all those simple and tedious questions that can be summed up into a single answer." His gaze narrowed a little bit more as he stepped forward, his grey eyes staring fiercely into Wesker's.

"I am the man who was once in charge of raising you, taking care of you and watching over you as you grew up, just like a father does with his child. I am the man who was once the Head Researcher at Umbrella Corporation, 1968. I am Alexander Wesker, head of the 'Wesker Children' project."

Now even Wesker, who would not leave his guard down a single moment, not trusting even his own shadow, ended up struck by Alexander's revelation. It didn't take a fraction of a millisecond for his common sense to kick in, his mind reasoning wildly and finding it utterly impossible for Alexander to be alive or, at least, looking so very young.

He had revealed himself to be a man in his mid-thirties, possibly thirty-four or thirty-six years old of age, of the same height as Albert but with a much weaker complexion than him. His dark brown hair, cut short, was lustrous and neatly combed backwards, and would've very well given the impression of a serious businessman if it wasn't for the long fringe that covered his right eye, some of the locks reaching past his cheekbone. His gaze was his most striking feature: his eyes were of an intense light grey colour, almost of a ghostly shade, and the gleam in them and the way they were narrowed showed him the kind of person he was: dangerous, power-hungry and fierce. At the same time, it was cold, impassive and menacing, completely identical to Albert's.

Alexander smiled, his expression softening somewhat. "It seems I hit a nerve, didn't I?" he asked, sounding more like a statement. "I never thought I'd see you _this_ surprised in my life, Albert. Oh well, there are many things I didn't expect to see in this life and I _have _seen, you know..." He suddenly stopped, as if remembering something. "Oh… or should I say 'Aaron Geller'?"

_'Aaron Geller'? Is that...?!_

Wesker's reaction could've gone unnoticed if it wasn't for Alexander's watchful eye, and the brown-haired felt his lips twitch into what it seemed a smile when he saw Wesker become tense, his stance shifting.

"You'd better start explaining what this is all about. I am in no mood for secrets or prevarication." Alexander eyed Wesker from top to bottom, keeping an amused look across his features, and then chuckled.

"You're nervous, boy; calm down. I was on my way to explaining everything to you. After all, I really didn't call you to come here for idle banter."

In spite of Alexander's initial taunt, Wesker remained firm, the eagerness and anxiety that had haunted him those past years returning once more to stay.

"I believe Spencer told you about everything; just a small gander at the book, yes?" Pleased with his silence, Alexander carried on. "It was a cold month of December, 1967, when I was informed about the 'Wesker Children' project plan personally by Spencer. At that time, I was the Head Researcher in Umbrella; I was merely twenty-five of age and, as you might be thinking, it is an age when people are the most naïve. I accepted to carry it out and by August of the next year -near the completion of the Management Training Facility- the project saw the light. It does seem easy, told like this but, in reality, Spencer had a horrible time with the requirements that were necessary for the start of the project.

"One was the Mother virus, or Progenitor as you already know. It was his key component; without it, his dreams were nothing more than a raw sketch on paper, waiting to be reflected on reality. The second was the Umbrella Corporation itself, thus leading to its founding early in 1968. In the company, they would start the project."

Alexander paused, seemingly nostalgic and frustrated at the same time.

"The third and final component was myself," he continued, looking at Wesker. "As you're already aware, Spencer's dream was bringing another human race to this world, a superior race. The fact that I was required for the start of the project was something I didn't take very lightly, since it was my intelligence or one alike to it he wanted the new humans to have; oh well.. and to finally start he needed another component."

"The children…" Wesker whispered and Alexander smiled, pleased, nodding in some way that belied his true feelings. That change was something Wesker immediately noticed thanks to his cultivated talent of reading body language. That talent helped him to notice how completely antagonistic Alexander's many gestures were: one moment he had sounded frustrated and the other he was something close to elated. Indeed, Alexander was somebody one shouldn't mess with, and Wesker certainly didn't have that intention unless it was necessary.

"Yes, the children," agreed the brown-haired Wesker. "Spencer authorized the abduction of hundreds of children from all across the globe, of all ethnicities, of all nationalities, be it Russian, Spanish, German, British, American; it didn't matter. The important fact was that they were all _children_, and that was that; there was no other side to the coin. Take yourself as an example of his actions."

He gestured with an open hand at Wesker.

"Spencer had a personal pet-peeve though: those children had to have an above-average IQ, thus he only collected children born from intellectuals, such as yourself. Obvious, wasn't it?

"Much to my dismay -since I didn't realize until then what I had gotten into- those children were brainwashed, their identities destroyed, their faces erased from the surface of the Earth, all to be reborn as new beings. Their surname was 'Wesker', and they were given names that weren't even their own."

Alexander now seemed enraged, his fist clenching and unclenching surreptitiously.

"They were indoctrina- no, they weren't. They were _manipulated_ into believing Spencer was some kind of fatherly figure to them, someone who had given them a place in the world… in the next world they would populate.

"Months after the start, these children were sent across the globe to Umbrella-supervised environments, where they were educated just like a normal boy is in the school he attends. They were monitored 24/7, and they didn't know… not a single thing about it." His face then brightened up. To someone else, Alexander's mood swings would seem scary and disconcerting; to Albert Wesker, they were outrageous. Alexander continued speaking, completely -and obviously- oblivious to Wesker's thoughts.

"Then, several years later, a specific child showed some incredible progress and he was quite promising. I had personally met him and he had told me he was pursuing a career in virology. As _stupid_ as I was," he put special emphasis on the insult, "I led him to Umbrella, notifying Spencer and having him transferred to the Training Facility in Raccoon City. It was 1977."

"That child was me," Wesker stated.

_And he still preserves that superiority complex and arrogance he always had, eh? Oh my, Albert, you certainly are something. Well, it was predictable: with your change and progress over the years, one can't expect otherwise. Even so, just like it will to me, it'll lead you to your downfall. I hope you have that in mind, boy..._

Alexander smiled inwardly.

_Because that is what you still are: a boy who has yet much to learn. Sooner or later, you'll see._

Alexander clapped his hands together, his smile widening as he left his thoughts aside.

"Yes! It was you, Albert Wesker, the child prodigy of the 'Wesker Children'," he said, showing himself to be joyful as he remembered the moment. "Yes, in 1977, you started working with Umbrella seriously, getting deeper and deeper into the company and finding out more about its secrets. I believe it was then when you befriended William Birkin?"

Wesker had a horrible hunch, but nevertheless stayed impassive, "I did, yes. Why are you bringing him up?"

Alexander's smile changed into a devious and evil grin, and he chewed on his lip with impatience.

"Because we are getting to the good part. Let me explain: several years after your transfer to Racoon City, Spencer started the second phase of the project."

"The second phase?" Wesker couldn't hold his surprise any longer. Alexander nodded matter-of-factly, almost glad Wesker had found out and was shocked.

_You're about to know everything._

"Uh-hm. You, Albert, were Spencer's most treasured child," he said. Wesker shivered involuntarily at those words, which left a bitter taste in his mouth. His ever-present cold expression remained inflexible but there was no use now; Alexander could read him like an open book, and he smirked.

"That seemingly hit another nerve, but you asked for the truth, didn't you? It can be cruel sometimes, but I believe that's not new for you."

He approached him, a hand inside his pocket.

"As I was saying, Spencer kept a wary and careful eye out for you, becoming more and more pleased with each passing day. You were proving to be the best of the best, perfection incarnated. That was the cue he needed to enact the second phase: a selective process.

"The children were administered an experimental virus, a variant strain of Progenitor, to screen out the best out of the others. Unfortunately, it proved to be a little too much for the poor creatures."

Wesker already knew what Alexander would say next and he spoke in turn, "Most of them died immediately and the survivors didn't last long enough to seek Spencer out, am I right?"

Alexander nodded again, spreading his hands and indicating his agreement. Wesker knew what to ask next.

_I think it's about time I get some answers about her. Her story is something I will not overlook, not after what we went through._

"Approximately a year ago, I met one of these children. Her name was Joanne, Joanne Dawson. What can you tell me about her?"

"Oh, Joanne? What can _you_ tell me about her?"

"Nothing else aside than she's dead, buried several feet underground… probably," Wesker stated bluntly, remembering how Joanne had died, painlessly, in front of his eyes: she'd died in her sleep.

Alexander frowned.

"Yes, our little Joanne Wesker or 'Cleo Dennis'…" He hesitated, then explained, "Well, let me tell you, Albert, that we weren't very pleased with her in some aspects... though in others, she was magnificent; take the rough with the smooth here. Her attitude was nothing like the rest of the children's and it took us long enough to indoctrinate her; in the end, we never succeeded but Spencer let it slide, something I certainly thanked him even though other researchers greatly disapproved. She was the white amongst the black, although she managed to make someone turn grey."

The last part of the sentence was pronounced with a sly tone, and Wesker felt a pinch of pain. He quickly gathered his wits.

"What about the accident she had? What about the accident that left her scarred?" he inquired, his tone strong and determined.

"Oh, that…" Alexander said almost dismissively. "Well, it was something I had to orchestrate and carry out."

At Alexander's words, Wesker shifted his stance.

"What did you say?" His words were like ice daggers, daggers that didn't make Alexander's heart tremble or bleed; they were painless. Alexander nodded again.

"Yes, they were orders coming directly from Spencer. When I said she managed to turn someone grey, I believe you knew I was referring to your relationship. Spencer didn't want it to last; you, Albert, were inwardly reverting back to the person you once were: a curious, enthusiastic boy with a very complex personality, the most complex of all the children we had ever seen. Spencer didn't want you to break the homogeneity of the Wesker Children, so he had Joanne killed; if you remember, it was the year 1975 and you were fifteen at the time. Spencer's plans were carried out smoothly, without any complications, and so did mine. Joanne supposedly died in a car accident caused by a brake failure, and I showed up with her body at the facility just to prove to Spencer she was really dead.

"But that wasn't true; the file I submitted was a fake. Her body, on direct orders from him, was to be cremated and disposed of, to be forgotten, but I didn't do as he said. Instead, I kept Joanne with me and treated her for eight, hellishly long years. Combining the T-virus with the experimental strain of the project, I cured her and restored her body. It was tricky, hence why I couldn't keep her skin from scarring. Here's another one of the reasons why she didn't die: she proved to be useful afterwards with her company."

"RBI?" Wesker asked, even though he knew.

"Yes, RBI proved to be a valuable asset so I let her live; I hid her from Spencer's eyes. But… it seems he found about her some time later. For all intents and purposes, the old bastard is dead now, so…" He then looked surprised. "Oh, I almost forgot about this: I couldn't save her from the strain's effects."

"What do you mean by that?" Wesker inquired.

"The experimental strain selected the best of the children out of the others. At first, she didn't react against it but I made the calculations about her remaining time. Since 1985, Joanne only had thirty years left to live. You probably saw her die, correct? All because of the experimental virus."

Wesker blinked once, quickly controlling the gesture that would belie his feelings, and then moved on to the next matter.

"What can you tell me about my parents? My family?"

Alexander seemed surprised and then he smiled slowly.

"Why is it that I see a small trace of wistfulness and curiosity in those eyes of yours?" he asked in return, as if mocking him with the kindness that was traceable in his tone.

"Don't misunderstand me," said Wesker harshly. Alexander raised his hands in defence.

"For God's sake, Albert! Tell me, what would happen if I misunderstood you and wrongly interpreted your feelings? Please, don't be so defensive; it was only natural that you'd ask. I don't think anyone could go through life without stumbling across the idea of having 'parents' that raised you and brought you to this world." Alexander smiled again. "Hm, you were always a very proud person; you don't let anything humiliate you, even if it's the most trivial of matters."

_You are _such_ an open book, Albert._

Alexander then remained pensive towards his words and Wesker -who had to agree with what Alexander had said previously- waited for his answer.

"Well, let's see… Your parents were quite the normal couple, save for their intelligence -which was the facet that mattered- and their impressive love towards their child. Your mother's name was Erika Adler and your father's Ludwig Geller. At that moment, you were an only child but there might be a possibility you now have siblings," Alexander explained, and Wesker couldn't avoid an inner sigh. If he was honest, it had somehow piqued his interest, but curiosity always killed the cat.

True_ siblings, not like the ones I grew up with. _

"Joanne… Hm, I never met her mother, since she had passed away due to cancer and his father… the only thing I remember about him was his over-protective character and his name, which was Richard. Well, there you have the answers you wanted. I assumed you were also curious about Joanne, since you had asked about her before."

He then tilted his head downwards, smiling fiendishly. "Returning to an earlier matter which I don't want to miss the chance of mentioning... can you guess who administered the virus to you, little Al?" His tone was as evil, venomous and cruel as as his gaze, which didn't leave Wesker's for a single second.

Wesker had finally realized who that 'who' Alexander had mentioned was: his only and best friend, William Birkin.

_He couldn't have sided with Spencer! No, he even said it was fr__om a mutation stock! _

Albert's suspicions were proven correct; he had suspected William right since he had known about Spencer's plan back at England. No other person could've pulled it off as well as William had; after all, he and Wesker were especially close partners, a bond which served as a temporary cover for Spencer's actions. The question was: had William been aware of Spencer's motives, or had he been another pawn in the old man's scheme? For now, Wesker didn't know but he felt himself breathing at a fast pace, tension coursing through his veins.

"What's wrong? I've never seen you this shaken before," Alexander scoffed. "Is this what friendship has done to you? Please, I thought you smarter than that, paring up with such people…" Alexander caught the fierce gleam in Wesker's eyes and knew he indeed had a soft spot, one he rarely showed. For some reason, even if the betrayal was evident, Wesker wasn't going to allow William to be insulted.

"Did I offend you? I never thought I would, considering what you told me such a very _long_ time ago." Alexander smirked. "Allow me to quote you: _'Emotions are worthless. They make you weak, predictable, disposable of. Only strong people are the ones who thrive, and I plan on being one of them'_. You must remember your own words, correct?"

Wesker remained silent, surprisingly finding difficult to digest the facts. He had been betrayed many times by many people and he hadn't been fazed about it, but William was quite a different story. It was a hard blow for him to accept, but one that would strengthen his resolve and would renew his determination to literally _cleanse_ the world of worthless people, the chaff among the wheat.

Alexander intervened again. He laughed lowly, a laugh that closely resembled one of a devil's, "You want to kill me, don't you Albert?" He laughed again. "I can see it in your demeanour. I once told you: you're just like an open book! I know you want to kill me, to rip me to pieces. I can sense it in your aura and I can see it in the tiniest of your gestures: you are burning with killing intent--"

"Your taunts are meaningless words to me," Wesker interrupted, glaring at Alexander, who leaned forward in a mocking gesture.

"Alright then, _prove it_." Then he laughed again, harder than before. "Show me you're unfazed by what I've said… no, I have a proposition, a better one: show me that that little Geller boy still lives inside you, a boy who also burned with hatred and rage. I want to see him again, _come on!_"

Then, the unimaginable.

"That's enough!!" Wesker allowed the shout to slip, finally releasing his inner rage with one strong punch he landed on Alexander's chest. The brown-haired was thrust forward and fell with a dull thud, coughing and spitting blood. Whilst Alexander recovered from the intense blow, Wesker regained his self-control after the unexpected outburst that had left Alexander surprised.

Wiping his bleeding lips, Alexander chuckled.

"Well, well! It seems you have _truly_ slackened the reins on your emotions, eh? You never cease to amaze me, Albert." With a mild groan, he stood up, gulping. "This is what I wanted to see, that you still had it in you. It's hate what drives you, right? Hate is your master, it has been and it'll always been; a deep hatred towards the world that surrounds you."

Alexander sighed, fixating Albert with a sad gaze. "It's quite understandable... and I for one encourage you to keep nurturing that hate. That is why I ask you to put me out of my misery once and for all." This caught Wesker somewhat unawares but he remained silent. Alexander scoffed again.

"You really think I'm kidding, bluffing perhaps? No, I'm not. I've grown weary of this world and my only purpose left was to find you and see you for the last time. It's been thirty years since I last did."

"If you are now asking me to end your life," started Wesker, "why did you agree to help Spencer in the first place?" Alexander smiled sadly.

"Why did _you_ agree to join Umbrella in the first place? Our objectives were one and the same: a search for power, although I satiated my thirst long before you. I also must admit I did it out of sheer interest; at first there were no ulterior motives for me. I am not innocent, but I'm not guilty either; a sinner and a saint." In spite of Alexander's request -which Wesker would've granted immediately if it weren't for his self-control- the blonde Wesker didn't move. Then, unable to prevent it, he lowered his head.

There was still much to accept; what Spencer had told him had only been a mere fraction of the entire story, a small component of the bigger picture. If he were a soulless being, he would've been left unfazed and uninterested in what Alexander had told him. Many people had assumed that, but Wesker had also shown something else: he could be inhuman in all he appeared, but the fact was that Albert Wesker was still _human_, no matter how deep he tried to bury the very same essence that made him one: those feelings and emotions would and could very well stay in a corner of his being, forgotten and dust-ridden, but they would still _be there_, waiting to flourish again.

Slowly, Wesker glanced up.

"What if I decided to keep you alive?" he then asked, and Alexander's expression hardened: Wesker was definitely going to kill it; that wasn't a proposal to allow him to keep living.

_Besides, my time has come. It's time my sixty-four year old body meets its demise; I have nothing else left to do. Nothing keeps me bound to this world, so why keep torturing myself with my very own existence when it's literally begging for its end? I don't know of a better death that the one Albert will grant me; I know he's not going to hesitate. That'll be my redemption. _

"Then I suppose I would attempt to kill myself in that case," He replied with a careless shrug. "I can't emphasize my request enough, Albert. I know I wouldn't be satisfied if I took my life myself so please, do so. Would you disobey me, son?"

Wesker's promptness was expected. "I'm not your son."

Alexander's expression softened again, allowing his arms to fall to his sides.

"You were like one, though," He allowed himself to say. One last thought crossed his head before he saw Wesker disappear from in front of him, and he knew Death was coming to get him just like he'd requested a very long time ago.

_This is just like Daedalus and Icarus, me and Albert respectively. __I for one was wary and cautious and, whilst this is what Daedalus was like, I was also a bit like Icarus: now, I'm falling without anything to stop me and I will inevitably die_. _It's also like this for Albert, and predictable: he'll fly too close to the sun and then he'll fall to his death... and he'll be too late to stop his fall._

_*****_

_****__Let Icarus plummet as the sun melts his wax  
_Wolfgang - Weightless

_

* * *

_

A/N: Cliffhanger! Nah, don't worry, this'll be three chapters long: two chapters and an alternate ending, so I have to say that the next chapter is going to be pretty much the final one. I hope to see opinions on this, please.

Reviews would be appreciated!^^

A/N#2: Chapter has been edited, many mistakes have been corrected all thanks to Maiafay. Thank you!^^


	2. Chapter II

**Author's Note: **Finally I can upload this! I've been horribly busy this week, but it's weekend now and I've got free time. Anyway, onto the note.

Well... what can I say about this one? For me, it's been hard to write it but, at the same time, it hasn't been terribly complicated. Let's say I've already had some experiences, so I know how everything that happens here feels like. No, I haven't lost anybody; I want to make that clear. It's something else, something it's not worth mentioning ;)

Also, this chapter -in my opinion- is a little bit more... emotional, could you say? Nah, I don't think so, but I've delved too much into Wesker's character and ta-da! I've found a few things XDD Well, in here is my own personal take on his past and everything that happened, answers to questions like: how was he abducted? How was his family? Does he have any members left? That's what's intrigued me, and I've followed a system to explain it which has been hard for me to write through, not because of complexity, but because of the events themselves. I've felt terribly sad sometimes, but I don't think that matters much.

There's not much else to say; I think you'll like this chapter, which is divided into parts. Thanks to everyone who's sticking with me so far, I'm really grateful. Well, now, I leave you to read this new installment. Have fun and enjoy!^^

**Disclaimer: I do not own... have I said it before? xDDDD**

**PS: You'll notice a few Latin words here; translations are right beside. It's my new favourite language, even if it's unused.**

**

* * *

**II

_Blood of the Father_

_Wes__ker's promptness was expected. "I'm not your son."_

_Alexander's expression softened again, allowing his arms to fall to his sides._

"_You were like one, though," he allowed himself to say. One last thought crossed his head before he saw Wesker disappear from in front of him, and he knew Death was coming to get him just like he'd requested a very long time ago._

If asked about life, Alexander would've said it was pretty much pointless —or, at least, his own. Right now, he thought, analytic retrospective on his life was as useless as a stick fighting a sword. He had his regrets, yet it was not the time to ponder about them and he certainly didn't want to; after all, the past can't be changed. He's remembered it many times and now more than ever before: it's because of it that he's going to die. He couldn't do much about it, right?

Well, so much for despondency.

Alexander could've had requested his death, but he himself had made a deal with it: Death could come to him sooner than expected, but Alexander wasn't going down without one last stand against it. He wasn't as careless and stupid to let his life slip away so easily; he had to have a way to die, _another_ way to die, not just as simply as it was about to happen. He actually thought he deserved a better way to leave; some could consider it arrogance, others could consider it a sense of pride and dignity. Whatever the case, Alexander didn't care.

That is why, as soon as he saw Wesker's hand coming to impale his chest, Alexander gripped his wrist and quickly held it inches away from his heart, struggling with almost no difficulty.

"I won't go down so easily. I'm not leaving without one last fight," said Alexander, a small smile spreading across his face. Wesker was left somewhat impressed: Alexander had definitely modified his body in some way to preserve his youthful appearance, but the effects of whatever substance he had taken or process he had gone through couldn't be only limited to slowing down his aging. Judging by the speed of Alexander's hand, Wesker feared he was going to fight another human BOW waiting for its mutation to start.

But as the fight started, that didn't happen.

Instead, Alexander rapidly swung his leg and delivered a blow square in Wesker's side, focusing every ounce of strength possible in his foot. He delivered three more blows in a rapid succession, successfully holding Wesker in place, and then punched his face to finish his first round. Wesker was about to stagger due to the pain in his now spinning head, but he recovered his balance and counterattacked, ramming the butt of his hand right under Alexander's ribcage and thrusting him backwards.

Alexander, thanks to his good —and almost supernatural for a human being— physical condition, recovered from the blow with a back-flip in mid-air, landing on the floor with a skid of his shoes, unfazed by the attack. He kept a deadly and fierce glare fixed upon Wesker, who was now dashing forward once again in a very different way: he was zigzagging towards him, disappearing and reappearing with black blurs, and Alexander felt a bolt of surprise through his body, even though he had already seen those moves many times… or something akin to them.

The elbow in the stomach he received afterwards was like the strongest kick of the strongest horse in the world; it was like a thousand pins riddling the offended area. He groaned through gritted teeth, holding the wave of blood that threatened to spill from his lips, and a kick in the face from Wesker was what he needed for his killer sense to finally kick in. Alexander Wesker could be a cold-blooded and bloodthirsty individual once in a while… and that happened too often.

Before Wesker could do anything else to harm him, Alexander performed a reverse roundhouse with not as much success as he had expected. Wesker caught his foot inches away from his cheekbone —and that kick would've been nasty— but it was just what Alexander wanted: thrusting forward his other leg and swinging his body forwards, he hit Wesker's chest two times with unimaginable speed; he was so fast that those movements could've been considered one.

_Now, if he was smart, he would let go of my leg._

But Alexander's thoughts were never heard —at least, not entirely. Wesker _did _let go of his leg but then he countered again with unbelievable skill: he jumped into the air, flipping his body around, and with a windfall kick in Alexander's ribcage he had him on the floor again. Wesker's hand closed tightly around the collar of his shirt and he effortlessly lifted Alexander up. He struggled to free himself, lashing out his legs but soon stopping as he saw he was wasting oxygen.

Alexander craned his neck to one side with a wince, and it was then when Wesker caught sight of the large scar that ran up from possibly his collarbone to the half of his cheek. Its paleness contrasted with Alexander's tanned skin, but Wesker wasn't focusing on that. Instead, he was trying to stop and organize the sudden rush of images through his mind, all blurred and bizarre. He also heard a scream and a gunshot, and everything left him momentarily disconcerted. In spite of that, the brown-haired Wesker didn't take advantage of his confusion, but he instead spoke to him in a low voice.

"Oh, so this rings a bell…" he remarked. "Well, it was actually _you_ who inflicted this wound and, now that I remember, it wasn't very pleasant." He drew a sharp intake of air, the grip around his throat tightening considerably.

"I've never met you before; don't say such nonsense," Wesker's reply was prompt; he had quickly gathered his wits. Alexander scoffed.

"You'll find out about it eventually."

Ignoring the pain as much as possible, only coughing through clenched teeth, Alexander brought down his heel on Wesker's arm, a blow which only made him wince ever so slightly. Even though his legs were thrashed and literally burned, it was as if pain was an unknown concept to Alexander. His endurance was remarkable.

They exchanged fierce blows between one another and performed moves than only 'supernatural' people would be able to. With each moment that transpired, Wesker was surer and surer that Alexander wasn't anything close to human. His strength, his stamina, his reflexes: they were all unnatural. He couldn't dodge all of Wesker's movements, but Alexander could very well stand his ground against him for three more hours if he wanted to. At some points, Wesker could see there was no way to hit him; he avoided every single blow, which left one only choice: improvisation.

_A doppelganger's demise is like a broken mirror: once it can't mirror your actions anymore, it's weak and vulnerable._

There came a point where Alexander showed the best —but not the last— of his moves: he dodged a powerful crescent kick from Wesker only bending backwards to the extreme, his face showing no actual strain or effort when performing the move. Then, he leaned his hands on the floor, performing the typical bridge, and focused all of his body's weight in the back of his hands as he lifted his legs from the ground. As he did that, they closed around Wesker's hip and Alexander impressively lifted him up and thrust him forward with a cry in pain and effort. Wesker landed on the ground soon; he wasn't pushed too far, but the force of the impact left him stunned when he bumped his head against the cold floor.

A slight sensation of nausea and queasiness overcame him for a few moments, and a bolt of surprise ran through his body as he noticed Alexander diving towards him, his feet straight ahead. Wesker stood up on one knee and stopped Alexander's feet a mere distance away from his face, but it was then when he realized he had grasped only _one_ foot; the other one was already moving towards his face with an incredible speed and force. His face literally burned when he received the blow but it surprisingly disappeared in less than five seconds. Wesker was forced to let go of Alexander and he stood up, cursing the almighty pain in his whole head.

Out of precaution, Alexander jumped back, leaning against the wall as both he and Wesker rested for the little time they had before resuming the fight. In spite of not feeling tired, Alexander was panting, taking long and slow breaths as he tried to stop the blood flowing from his lip and nose. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, his knees threatening to buckle, and he took a hand to his injured stomach. When he withdrew it and glanced at it, it was stained with blood: his skin was bleeding profusely.

Wesker, on the other hand, looked mildly better than Alexander, although he too had received a good beating. Alexander was impossibly strong and agile, and it was the first time Wesker had had to fight with such focus, caution and vigour. He wasn't bleeding as much as Alexander, but the harsh blow to his face had left a bleeding mark along his cheekbone and his temple. It somewhat surprised him to feel warm blood flowing down his neck; when had it been the last time he'd seen something such as his blood?

Alexander chuckled. "You… haven't lost any of your faculties, Albert; I'm certainly impressed. Neither have I though, mind you," he remarked with a crooked smile. "You've already seen so."

Then, Wesker was in front of him in less than the blink of an eye, something that caught Alexander off guard. He dodged the oncoming blow for only inches and he toppled over when his right leg failed him and caused him an ankle sprain. He winced inadvertently, fortunately being able to stand up with only a small effort of his injured leg along with the left one, and he quickly whirled around to keep Wesker in sight. The blonde couldn't help an inner chant of victory when he noticed the look of trepidation that had flashed across Alexander's normally confident features. It had gone as fast as it had come, but it was still clearly seen.

_Even now, he's still afraid of dying._

"What have you done to yourself?" asked Wesker.

"Referring to what, exactly?" Alexander countered, trying to calm the burning pain in his lower body. Wesker adopted a stance that reflected his nonchalance and he shrugged his shoulders.

"In 1968, you were twenty-five and you still look like it, possibly a few years older, no more than thirty-four. If I'm not wrong, you must be in your sixties now, correct?" He posed. Alexander allowed himself a faint smile.

"Oh, you mean _that_… Well, it was a stupid yet quite useful gift from Spencer. It was a reward due to the success of the 'Wesker Children'. It was a modified T-virus sample; of course, modified by me." He shrugged. "If not, I would've mutated, my body would've decayed and I believe I would've had a bullet in my skull and would've been buried a good bunch of feet underground… and that wouldn't have been nice."

When Wesker didn't say anything, he finally realized the intention of his question.

"Exactly," intervened Wesker now with a small nod. "It seems you have seen the point of my question."

Alexander nodded sadly.

"Yes, I have. To put it simply, all my abilities are unrelated to the virus' effects. I learnt and developed my skills as I acted as a trainer for a few children. As you might expect, I wasn't a match for their amplified capabilities, so I trained as hard as I could. This is the result… and with my current age, it isn't easy getting used to it again." He smirked. "Don't fret; I'm still no match for you. You won't have any difficulties beating me."

"I had no doubts about that, Alexander."

Alexander chuckled again, almost bitterly. "Ha, now you're going to attack with the typical 'It-was-just-a-warm-up' comeback?"

Wesker shook his head.

"I would've said so in another occasion; not now, though."

Alexander would've smiled, but he laughed instead. "A tone as arch as always, eh?" He grinned. "Although it's nice to see you show the little sense of humour you have. Well, you're in your right to be confident now; I'm an easy prey for you to kill, after all."

He sighed.

"I can't move; my leg muscles are completely thrashed and I think a good bunch of fibres are torn in both legs. I don't know why I'm still standing, certainly; must be sheer willpower. You have your chance now; don't waste it."

Wesker stole a short glance at Alexander's feet, and the man's words were true: a pool of blood was forming at his shoes. Judging by the speed of its formation, Alexander's legs had to be bleeding pretty badly.

_Even his skin has been torn apart. Such strain and he still kept fighting… truly commendable, but it's useless now. I _am_ going to kill him after all._

Wesker wasted no time: with one quick movement, he had appeared in front of Alexander and had impaled his chest with his hand; Alexander deserved no other death. Alexander's eyes widened and he groaned through gritted teeth again, the groan having menaced to transform into a hearty cry as the pain coursed through his body and made it feel as if it was on fire. Alexander made the huge effort of holding on to what little life he had left and his expression became sombre.

"O…kay, this… this is what I… asked…f-for," He breathed, trying not to choke on his own blood. "Lemme tell you… s-something… Don't… fall… into the… sea… Be wary…"

His voice trailed off, weak and hoarse. With the last energies he had, he quickly glanced at Wesker, who kept his gaze firmly fixed up ahead, his expression one of impassive serenity.

Before touching the ground, before Wesker pulled his hand away, Alexander Wesker was dead, a faint smile touching his lips.

Albert kept still, not even bothering to shake the blood off his sleeve, not even flinching when he heard Alexander's lifeless body fall to the floor. He felt joyful, impassive and despondent, all at the same time, all the emotions clashing between one another to finally declare the winner which would be what he felt. He felt joyful: he had finally killed one of the main dampers; he felt impassive: why would he have to care about that?; and he felt despondent: why had he _done_ that? He had killed his father after all, the father that had raised him for most of his life.

What importance was there in that fact?

Wesker answered that question.

_All the importance the fact has, and even more… if I may add_, he thought as he looked one last time at the fallen Alexander.

In silence, with no thoughts crossing his mind, he spun on his heels and left the building. There, he was leaving his life: who he had been, what he had been, what he'd done and what he'd felt; it was his past, and there would be no more pondering about it. He had decided to bury it, to lock it away and throw the key so that no one would even find it. It would be like ashes scattered in the wind.

In spite of his intentions, Wesker decided to keep a little bit in mind, something he soon found himself cherishing. Fortunately, having gone through that horrible —and many other times, traumatic— experience hadn't affected him in the least. Sure, it could've possibly caused bizarre nightmares or painful flashbacks, but everything had nurtured the other thing he cherished most: that burning hatred and strong aversion towards the world that surrounded him. It was his strength, what had and would help him to carry on, undeterred.

Now, it was time to face the future.

'_Don't fall into the sea', huh? My wings are unbreakable. They're strong, stronger than anything in this world, and powerful; they will help me reach the sky and, with that, my goal. I am the _**new**_ Icarus, one that will not suffer the same fate. I will keep flying, with nothing to stop me._

Too bad he didn't know the consequences.

_**Even if Icarus had been wary and had listened to Daedalus**__**, his greed and his eagerness would have come before his inevitable fall.**_

_*****_

_Animus Sollicitus (Confused Soul)_

He didn't notice the small package until he examined the room more thoroughly. He had come through the door expecting to find the room as untouched as he'd left it. Everything was perfectly in place, at the same time it wasn't; he had noticed something strange, something at first he couldn't quite describe. At first, he had found nothing wrong so he then proceeded to make himself comfortable in the hotel room again, leaving his mind empty of all thoughts.

He felt uneasy. He didn't want to think, he didn't want to feel, he didn't want to do _anything_, and he meant it quite literally. On the contrary to his nature, he now felt somewhat weak and despondent, things which he berated himself inwardly for. It was completely unnatural of him to feel so negative; he had such pessimism invading his being that any normal person would've fallen into depression or would've most likely turned to something like masochism.

But he, Albert Wesker, couldn't not allow it.

He was strong, incredibly strong, and not only physically. He had endured many of the things life had thrown in his way, overcoming them with no kind of 'collateral damage' to himself, something which he was proud of. He had shielded himself from even life itself, protecting his feelings —what he _truly_ was— from the many people and events that had tried to harm it, to destroy it, to make it collapse like a fragile tower of cards, never to be lifted again.

He was strong, incredibly strong, and not only physically.

Then why the _hell_ was he feeling like this all of a sudden? Why was that front he had struggled to strengthen over the years feeling like it was about to break into tiny pieces? Why was there no explanation or reason to why that hate he'd kept alive and burning in his soul was starting to extinguish itself like a feeble flame? There were so many whys and so scarce answers, almost practically none. Well, he was a patient man and he had obtained everything he wanted because of that patience and persistence, so why would he doubt about those answers coming? Why would he, when he doubted it in those same instants?

Up until now, even after those thirty minutes of silence and thorough pondering, he still hasn't figured it out.

He shifts in the armchair, crossing his arms and letting out an audible sigh; he's alone, so he doesn't have to refrain from doing so. He's alone, engulfed by a darkness which is solely slightly disturbed by the city lights from the other side of the big window and which is thanked by his tired and sensible gaze. Then, he does nothing, he says nothing; he only keeps thinking, literally racking his brains harder than ever before. Whoever said that science or anything in this world was much more difficult than understanding a human soul, was telling a lie.

Right now, he understands nothing about himself. Everything seemed so clear before, as clear as the crystalline surface of a river until its calmness was disturbed and the bottom of that river is lost from sight. Now, he finds himself like a cracked mirror, once intact and perfect. The mirror is about to shatter and the pieces about to scatter and, if they do, it'll be very complicated to put them all together again. He's just like that… although he doesn't want to see the mirror shatter, of course.

Finally, he stands up and mildly lights up the room, only the necessary for him to see his way around the elegant room. Surprisingly, it is then when he finds a small rectangular package resting on top of the bedside table. He nears the table and picks the package up, reading the addressee —himself— and the sender, which is not specified; he finds that section completely blank. Suspicious, he opens the envelope and peeks inside it, only to find a small book.

With no words and no thoughts about it, he takes it out and examines it, taking out a folded sheet of paper that is sticking out from the pages. Once he glances at it, his eyes instinctively skim over the paper and stop at the end, only to find a few initials —some kind of code— as the sender's signature.

**WCS01/AW**

At first, he ignores the code and proceeds to read the letter; of course, the code would certainly help him afterwards. The handwriting was clear and elegant, as if whoever had written it had thought about it carefully, without any spontaneity. It read like this:

_Right now, there is no need to introduce myself, since you've already met me and I'm more than dead at this point__ (thank goodness, by the way). Well, what are we going to do about it? It was inevitable, really, though maybe not so. I could've never called you; then I could've kept on living until my days were finally over as I died of old age. If I had chosen that though, you would've been kept in the dark for the rest of your life, and you yourself would've died with a nagging feeling if it wasn't for my initiative; something I've always lacked, mind you._

_To get to the point __—and please forgive my rant above—, I planned on giving you this once I learnt that you were still alive after the Arklay mansion incident, but you went into hiding; you almost disappeared. It was then when I decided to make plans of my own to meet you after a good while. I've met you now, and I'm glad I have. _

_This book is... hm, I'm not quite sure I want to reveal the secret but I have to: this book is you diary, Albert. Impressive, isn't it? To think someone like you would write something like this… Well, do believe me because it is quite true. _

_This is the last piece of information you need to examine; it'll give you the rest of the answer you've sought all these years. I thought it would do as a nice —though early— Christmas present. I am quite a joker, so don't take that seriously; of course, I didn't expect you to. Take your time to read it and please, don't throw it as if it were something worthless. I didn't get to say any last words, so do take these into account, just as my last request. _

_These are your memories, Albert, and though you're not an amnesiac, you sure seemed to have lost everything. I suggest you remember and relive them; it'll do you some good, trust me. At least, it was good for me… but you're not like me, so… _

_Well, with nothing else I say goodbye for the last time. I hope to see you in a better place. _

_Take care, Aaron._

_P.S: Along certain entries, you'll find some more notes from me; you need the explanations, you __**deserve**__ them. _

His interest piqued, he proceeds to having a glance at the first page of the book. It's blank, so he moves on to the next, which is full this time. He quickly turns the pages, finds there are a lot of entries and photographs glued to some sides of the papers. One of the entries catches his attention, so he reads it carefully. It is all written in German, a language he understands perfectly.

_I am German, after all,_ he thinks, and starts reading.

**

_Contemptus__ (Despised)_

_**January 10**__**th**__**, 1965.**_

_**It's really nice to write here. I don't care if I repeat myself: this is like the friend I'll never have.**_

_**School hasn't been good today —'Kindergarten', just like mom tells me to call it. The other kids there aren't nice. I'm not asking for them to be of course, but at least they could save their smart and cruel remarks they make about me and my family. They think I'm only there to brag about how much I know; they're just jealous and they look down on me. It's their problem: I have a privileged intelligence and I don't plan on wasting it on stupid reasoning. Well, I don't care about what they say: I'll show them! I'll be even better than I am now and then it'll be **_me_** who'll look down on them! They will not despise me anymore!**_

_**I am getting angry because I can't stand the lies. I was a new boy in school and everybody was gentle with me **__**—that, of course, was just a cover. Then, when I started showing my talents, I was treated like a smart-ass and an arrogant brat. I talked to the teachers at first and they helped me a little bit: they scolded those who wanted to pick fights with me, but they don't do anything anymore. I'm going to handle this myself, **_my own_** way. I will show them, I swear. I won't let them get away with this.**_

**

_Amor__ (Love)_

_**February 20**__**th**__**, 1965 (Night)**_

_**Such amazing news I have! My gosh, I'm having a little sister! Right now I'm in the hospital in the waiting room; I'm brimming with anticipation and nervousness. Papa told me being a big brother was something very special and important and, as such, I have to be a responsible boy. I'm going to do my best, that was my promise to him. Papa is as anxious as I am, even more! **_

_**Well, the doctor's coming with news, I'll write more afterwards!**_

**

Next to that entry there's a photograph. He glances at it, examining the people in it with care, and sadness slowly invades his heart. It's a very weak feeling, but it still nags him.

He sees a blonde boy —Aaron, _himself_— with a faint but joyful smile on his youthful and handsome face, and he is holding a pretty five month old baby in his arms. She is holding his fingers in one hand and the collar of his T-shirt in another, and her bright blue eyes stare curiously at his. She's pouting, a mild scowl on her pale face very similar to his brother's.

Their parents are standing behind him, a kind and warm smile on both of their faces. His father was brown-haired, his hair cut short, and his brown eyes shone warmly with affection. His mother was very alike: her hair was also brown and it reached under her chin, with a wavy fringe bordering her eye. Albert notices the similarity between him and her: their eyes are exactly the same.

'_Your eyes are just like your mother's, kiddo__, but you look more like me though. There, the answer's useful, right?'_

Now, he focuses on himself again, staring at the young boy. Aaron —_It's me; I still have to remind myself_— looks happy and pleased with his life, but his eyes tell quite the opposite. The gleam in those blue hues is the one of a sad child's, a child who's bottled everything up within him, rarely letting anything show. It was because of the exhibition of his emotions that he had been teased and bullied and looked down upon —he remembers— and he knows that situation hasn't changed at all. Throughout his life, many people have looked down on him, some have even tried to kill him —not only his nemesis, but many more before him— but he had never given up. He always rose again, overcame the obstacles and placed himself above them.

Now, knowing this, he finds himself unwilling and unable to tear away his gaze from the photograph, noticing how his awe grows and tugs at his heart. For the first time in years, he feels like that. His chest is heavy and there's a knot in the pit of his stomach. No matter many times he spun the coin around, the faces were always going to be same; the same was with his life. No matter how he tried to approach it and find out more about it, he always saw the same: the world hated him.

_No worries though: I'll make sure I hate the world as much as it hates me. _

He turns the page, stumbling across an entry dated much later: January of the next year. Whatever had caused him to stop writing for so long? He soon finds out and his jaw clenches tightly.

**

_Solum__ (Alone)_

_**January **__**31**__**st**__**, 1966**_

_**Jenell**__**, my little sister isn't here with me today. She's gone with mom and papa to the doctor's office again; I don't know how many times they've gone there this month. This last year has been horribly busy; we've had to look after Jenell very carefully. Two months ago, she was diagnosed with tuberculosis, a disease she's inherited from papa. She's okay for now, although the doctor's think she won't live a long time. I have to protect her and take care of her; I won't let her die.**_

_Note: I'll tell you something, Albert: your sister is still alive. You'll find something more on ahead; don't worry._

**

Then, he starts feeling something else, a nagging feeling just like the type Alexander had described: now, he needed to know about her, about Jenell. How could he ignore something such as his family? Of course, he hadn't been conscious of their existence until now but, now that he knew, that he knew he had parents and a sister, how could he leave them aside? Normally, he wouldn't have minded but after waiting for so long and being _so_ patience, the first thing he wished for was an answer, and a good one.

He keeps on reading with a certain amount of awe, predicting that something bad was going to happen.

**

_Diluo__ (Resolve)_

_**March 1**__**st**__**, 1966 (Night)**_

_**Today's been a nice day: I've turned six, and it feels nice to be older. Now, I'm one step closer to my goals. I didn't get many things, but it's alright. Considering the conditions we live in, I've always been very modest; the sensation of selfishness is not something I want to experience. At least, Jenell's still here, so that's fine; I think that's my present today. I don't want her to leave us; I won't let anything or anyone take her away from me. She's my sister and I love her. There's nothing I wouldn't do for her.**_

_Note: Ask yourself, Albert: why did you love her? I mean, there's nothing wrong with that kind of emotion, correct? Love is something natural, whether it's towards something or someone; you yourself must've experienced that by now, right?__ Think about it._

**

Albert stops reading and blinks as he lets out a long sigh, somewhat crestfallen. 'I love her'… Why did those words mean so much to him now? It was so strange: what did _love_, for that matter, mean to him? It was something he'd barely experienced in his life, something almost nonexistent for him. But now, he feels wistfulness: to be honest, he's missed her, he wants to see her —at least, one more time.

The next page shows another photograph with Albert and Jenell in it. She's sleeping in his arms with a hand clutching his black sweater, her expression peaceful and relaxed. Seeing Jenell again makes his anticipation grow, and he takes his clenched fists to his lips as he purses them, as if trying to keep himself from speaking.

Now that he notices, he can't speak: the words had died long ago in his throat, and there were none to say. His chest keeps feeling heavy, and he despises the sensation. He's even embarrassed with himself, but he can't avoid it. If emotions were useless, he asks himself, why hatred and anger weren't? Didn't they also make a person weak? This is the dilemma going on in his head. He stays silent for a few more seconds until he glances at the diary again.

He skims through the pages until he sees another date which calls his attention: December 19th, 1967. And then he doesn't need to read the contents: the glance at the date is the only thing he needs to remember everything. Somehow, he feels queasy and his stomach clenches. Images flash through his mind almost painfully in a rapid, bizarre succession but everything is clear. He closes his eyes and finds himself reliving a scene he didn't think that existed in his memories. It all transpires very quickly, but he can recall all of it: every sensation, every detail, every movement.

_Note: This is what I was talking about. __Read it, Albert: this was your past, this was your rebirth as a new person. Find out about it; maybe you'll grant me a second death once we see each other in Hell._

**

_Cruentus Noctem__ (Blood-red night)_

_When he comes through the door, he hears __Jenell squeal in happiness as she crawls near him. She attempts to stand up and she barely keeps her balance, those little legs of hers still unable to support her weight. Before she falls, he picks her up in his arms and pinches her nose with a faint smile as he and his mother, Erika, walk inside the dining room and their father greets them there. The boy knows he's been the whole afternoon fixing__ an old armchair, so he quickly kneels next to him to see if he can help. Ludwig dismisses him with a smile, and he goes up with Jenell to his room._

_Then, just moments later, Erika bursts inside room, her expression one of horror, and the boy jumps in surprise.__ As Erika closes the door behind her, he hears his father's yells from the lower floor and the strong noises of falling furniture and breaking glass. He fears for his life, for his family's, and the cruelty of the situation is that he cannot do anything for them. Erika's blue eyes search for Jenell, despair and true horror in her gaze._

"_Mom, what's happening?!" The boy's voice quivers with the same horror that's present on his mother's features. His mother doesn't reply to his question but picks Jenell up in her arms and yanks at Aaron's wrists, pulling him out of the room and heading downstairs to the back door. Through the door, they rush outside, away from danger. _

We can't leave papa alone!_ He cries in his mind as he desperately runs behind his mother. Why was she leaving him behind? What was happening? Jenell cries in Erika's strong and protective arms, and her mother keeps the baby girl's face hidden in her shoulder, and Aaron also feels the tears stinging at his eyes. They sting, and one of them spills and runs down his cheek. _

_Then, a gunshot._

"_Papa!!" Aaron skids to a stop and returns inside the house, calling for his father at the top of his lungs. His mother screams his name but he doesn't listen. He keeps running, but he falls down. He slips and he hits his head against something very hard, and his vision blurs with tears. He only hears a cacophony; there are no distinguishable sounds. Still stunned, he stands up, staggering, and he heads into the dining room. There, he finds the scene that would haunt his mind for the rest of his days._

_And he starts crying, unable to keep his shoulders from convulsing with his shaky sobs. _

_His father is lying on the carpet, a pool of his own blood forming under him, and a bullet hole piercing the right side of his chest. His eyes are open, staring lifelessly at one side__; his skin is ghostly white and his chest doesn't rise or fall with his breathing. Aaron suddenly knows his father is dead; there is no other way around it._

_He shouts his father's name as he kneels beside him. As his knees and hands touch the ground, he lets out a cry in pain as the bits and shards of sharp glass he hadn't seen pierce his flesh, drawing __blood instantly. He tries to ignore the pain but it feels like fire and the wounds keep bleeding, the amount of flowing blood gradually increasing. His hands tremble without any kind of control, and his pride hurts as much as the wounds. Then, a part of his mind tells him to stand up, look for the murderer and kill him, but another one _—_the most rational and sensible_—_orders him to remain still and think reasonably: what chances does he have against the murderer?_

_He hears footsteps approaching, the splinters and glass cracking underfoot, and Aaron lifts his blue tear-filled eyes to the stranger. His grey gaze bores into the boy's, who feels an incredible__ fit of rage run through his body, the adrenaline and the anger running through his veins. He can't control the emotion; it brims and it becomes clear: his eyes reflect it, gleaming fiercely. Though he can't speak; the words have died in his lips and his throat is parched. The stranger doesn't speak either, only stands ominously in front of him._

_Erika barges inside in a hurry, her face contorting with shock and horror once again as she catches sight of her husband's body. __To the boy's horror, Jenell isn't in her arms anymore and a pang of fear assails his heart, feeling as if he'd just been stabbed. _

"_Where's Jenell?!" he shouts, his voice hoarse and forced. But Erika ignores him, her gaze fixed upon the stranger. __She only stands quiet and very, very still, as if she was standing before Death itself and watching it deliberately make its decision very slowly. Who would he take: Aaron or her? Her legs are shaking in spite of her self-control and then, what Aaron was fearing. _

_The stranger reaches into his long black coat and slowly pulls out a gun, and Erika sees everything unfold __in slow motion. She knows who's he going to shoot, who's he going to take away from her, and she makes her decision without thinking it through. _

_As the man trains the gun on a defenceless and injured Aaron who is about to stand up and run, Erika __runs towards her son and becomes an obstacle in the bullet's predestined path. The bullet leaves the gun and pierces Erika's shoulder, and she shouts in pain. In spite of that, she kneels in front of Aaron and protects him, shielding his body with hers, and he stares at his mother's tired face in utter shock. _

_Her breathing is laboured and almost deliberately slow__, and the realization harshly dawns upon him. He calls her name, offers his protection, but Erika doesn't allow him to stand and she stays there, her face low and sombre as she keeps on breathing as much as she can. The stranger doesn't move, the gun still trained on Erika, and she turns her head around, fixating him with a cool, icy stare that sends chills through Aaron's spine. _

"_You won't take my son__," she tells the stranger fiercely. Both the stranger and Aaron are genuinely surprised at the edge in Erika's voice, which is cold as ice and sharp as a blade. _

_This is why Aaron has always admired his mother beyond the point of loving her: she is strong and determined; love is what drives her to do what she does, nothing else. And this is why Aaron also has to be strong, to live like her. Erika is like an impenetrable wall, sometimes being able to be heartless and cold, being able to numb her soul from any kind of emotion. At the same time, she's kind and impossibly loving, but all those emotions are very frequently locked up and away. The times she displays them, she does it to the extreme and shows the person she truly is. _

_The wound in her shoulder keeps bleeding, but she pays no attention to it. __Slowly, one hand closes around Aaron's and the other leans his head against her chest. Aaron is numb with fear: everything he loves is about to be taken away from him; why doesn't his mother allow him to do anything? He swore on his soul that he'd protect his family if they were in danger; why had they sacrificed themselves? Why was his mother about to die when he could've done something about it? He still can! He has to fight! _

_But the kiss in the forehead he receives from Erika only leaves him frozen in his place, understanding, the realization being to hard to accept. At the same time, it only makes a hidden killer instinct awaken and flourish; the anger in his soul starts to run through his veins__. He's going to stand up but Erika stops him, her eyes looking straight into his. Both mother and son understand: she's not going to live; her life ends right here, right now. _

_Aaron tries to say his mother's name again, but the lump in his throat only allows him to mouth it. His blood runs cold now__, and his innocent eyes are filled with fear as she stares at his mother's sad eyes for one last time._

_The stranger finally talks. _

"_Then there is no __point in keeping you alive. Since you won't turn him in, there's nothing else you're useful for; I'd take him myself," he says, and his finger squeezes the trigger. _

_The bullet hits Erika's neck, blood gushes out as it breaks the flesh, and she drops dead beside him. _

_Then, there is rage, anguish, despair, fear, anger, irrationality; every kind of emotion washes over Aaron like a tidal wave, and he opts to act out of irrationality and rage. _

_As such, almost allowing himself to be blinded by them, he springs forward and tries with all his might to hit the stranger but he's not able to land a blow. He shouts, desperately fighting to control himself, but everything is unleashed now; it's unstoppable. He blinks away the tears in his eyes; he won't give the stranger the pleasure of seeing him cry. _

_Then, as the man bends forward, Aaron slaps his cheek and leaves gashes across it; the glass in his hand was still handy, after all. __The man lets out a short cry in pain but he soon recovers, knocking Aaron down with a single blow. _

_He stumbles to the ground, forcing himself to stay awake and conscious. Even so, his ears suddenly feel plugged and all he hears is an undistinguishable cacophony__, suddenly noticing he is slowly slipping into unconsciousness. Try as he might, he cannot keep his eyes open…_

_And the last thing he sees is flames engulfing and destroying his house. __They were burning his past, his present, and his future. Now, there was no turning back. From now on, he feels -he _knows_- nothing will be the same. _

**

As he remembers, he realizes he's broken.

His heart has never been so racked with pain, sorrow and renewed hate; he doesn't know what to do now that he's found out. He repeatedly tells himself to calm down, that it's all useless, the sentence feeling just like a precious karma he's never abandoned. He would've never cared about matters like this; they would've just been harmless to the hard wall of ice that shielded his heart. Even so, the revelations, one after another, have finally scratched the wall's surface, until it's been right from the inside through where the wall has cracked and collapsed.

He takes slow and paused breaths in an attempt to control the wave of emotions that washes over him; he has to keep them on a leash. It's the first time it happens and, as such, he's not used to the pain it causes.

He leans on his knees, the attempts to calm down completely futile. He clenches his fists until his knuckles are completely white and he lets his head hang limply. He's more than furious; he swears revenge on the world. Yes, Spencer was dead, Alexander was also, but he knows there are still more people left, people who had helped both of them to take away the humanity which humans can't live without.

In any case, he's always known he's been all but human, virus or not, project or not. He's been ambitious, he's been power-hungry, he's been egocentric and all those personas according to which a personality is crafted.

Somehow, now his humanity returns, only to make him more inhuman than ever.

And he remains alone in the dark, tearlessly grieving and mourning a life he considered his own no more. It's all gone; everything he was and has been is gone forever, like smoke into the air. Aaron Geller, Albert Wesker… they're two people he'll forget but will keep in his mind; they are his foundations, his beginning and his end, his alpha and his omega. They are evolutions, Wesker that of Geller's, but they are also the same; there are no differences. They are all driven by the same thing.

And _that_ is **hate.**

Albert Wesker accepts the truth, no hesitation or doubt to impede him from doing so. The humour and the anticipation of a madman take over him, and he chuckles. His anticipation grows; he can't wait any longer! He's anxious and impatient; it's all coming to an end, only to start again! His chuckles transform into laughs, laughs he can't control no matter how much he tries. Is he insane? He doesn't know, and he certainly doesn't care. It was all so very hysterical; right now, he was laughing in front of everyone's face: the world's, Death's, _God's!_

It's all hate and madness, revenge and resent. The new Albert Wesker is born out of this, like a phoenix rising again from its ashes. This is how he is born.

This is how gods are born.

* * *

_A/N: We've almost reached the end of this story; the only thing left is the alternate ending. From the end of this chapter, you can guess what happens next: RE5. This turned out to be pretty long, huh? But I hope it was worth it. Stay tuned for the next!^^ Oh, you can also follow this in DeviantArt._

Reviews are appreciated!^^

A/N#2: Chapter has been edited, many mistakes have been corrected all thanks to Maiafay. Thank you!^^


	3. Chapter III: Alternate Ending

**Author's Note:** Yes, the final update! Just a small note: I said in the last chapter that the ending was going to be non-canonical, but I changed my mind and decided to take a small turn. I was reading some info about the Spencer Estate in Europe (I have assumed it's located in England) and about everything that happened (as if I didn't know by now xD) and that is what inspired me to make a small rewrite of the scene in RE5 that shows Wesker and Spencer in the Estate. In here, I've focused a little bit more on how he felt about those revelations. In this one, it's Spencer and not Alexander who tells him; not all, but enough.

As I wrote, I realized I just felt Wesker's joy itself and... whoa, you can't imagine how it felt: so powerful and intense, you get to know how he felt and the resolve that drove him to carry out his plans. Feeling just like the character does so strongly has never happened to me before, which is another sign of the small and healthy obsession I have with his character.

Anyway, I leave you read this and I hope you like it. I've used a lot of comparisons, mostly at the end, and I believe I reflect how Wesker feels pretty good. I'm no expert, but I'm slowly getting used to him. He's amazing, just to leave it short XDDD

**Disclaimer: I do not own Resident Evil or any of its characters.**

**

* * *

**

III

_Alternate Ending: __Of Gods and Lost Humanity  
_

**August, 2006**

**Spencer Estate, England**

When he arrived, a raging storm thundered above him, the powerful flashes of light cutting through the darkness of the sky and zigzagging through the clouds. Rain and wind accompanied the storm, as raging and intense as the clapping thunder. The sky seemed to be raining down its uneasiness and its warnings on him but he didn't heed them. As much as he'd warned himself, he hadn't listened. He wasn't as stupid as to back away now that the decision had been made, and that was the reason why he was there, under a rainy summer sky.

The rain soon stopped, as if it had been waiting for his arrival to relent. He had stood under the sky for God knew how long, staring at the luxurious and lavish front of the Spencer Estate. The very faint light at the top of the small porch, along with the darkness that engulfed the building, made it seem like it was taken right out of a horror movie and that was nothing far from the truth, Wesker knew. It had been built exactly like the one in the exterminated Raccoon City and, if the outside was the same, then he didn't doubt that what he'd find inside was any different.

How very much time, money, effort and sleepless nights had it cost him to find this place… And now, he was finally there, guided by an instinct and an anxiousness that still pulsated somewhere in the back of his mind, an anxiousness that had been restlessly gnawing at him for three long years. He was glad to see that his almost-infinite patience and persistence were finally going to pay off.

He decided to move in; he'd wasted too much time outside now and, to tell the truth, pneumonia was the last thing he needed. Oh well, as if he'd ever wondered about that… Following his instinct and his ever-present cautiousness, he initially decided against using the front door, but Spencer couldn't be expecting his arrival, correct? In Wesker's own words, he 'had become a fugitive in the world he once sought to control' and, as such, it was impossible for him to know about him and his plans.

Of course, the other side of the coin was that Wesker didn't know about Spencer's either. That cunning old man had been smart enough to keep everything to him, so Wesker had to admit -rather reluctantly- that he would have the disadvantage if it possibly came down to figuring them out. It didn't unnerve him, as usual. He was a man that kept things under control no matter what; at least, he tried. He'd had his moments of failure, although a strong and quick recovery from the fall ensued.

In any case and unwilling to waste any more time, he headed towards the front door and the fact of finding it unlocked caused a mix of emotions to flare up. Doubt momentarily clouded his judgement and made him hesitate, but with much certainty he knew he couldn't back down now. As such, Wesker stepped through the doorway and was greeted by a too familiar sight, one that would've been breathtaking to someone oblivious to what awaited them.

His suspicions were confirmed: this mansion was identical to the one in Raccoon, at least in how the front hall looked. A grand staircase climbed up the hall in front of him and then parted both ways, leading to two upper balconies. The walls were made with tiles of a sophisticated white colour or they would have if it wasn't for their grey and worn appearance. As expected, there were doors, and too many to count. Who knew where they led? Wesker wasn't very keen on finding out, although his interest would've been piqued if it wasn't for the task at hand in which he had to concentrate.

His instinct kicked in once again, telling him -_repeating_ him as though it were a despaired prayer- that Spencer would be in his chamber, the primary one if he guessed correctly; only God knew how many rooms this place had. Wesker pushed the door closed behind him and, when the door squared with the threshold, a dull _click_ resonated through the hall. A security system?

_If there are traps here such as loose tiles and rooms with spiked ceilings, this is nothing out of the ordinary. _

That was possible, but why the sudden activation then? Spencer wouldn't have risked communicating with the outside world, so the probabilities of him having crossed that door himself were scarce. Possibly someone else? Oh, how Wesker doubted that. Although who knew for certain? He had a small hunch: it could've been Sergei in the time he was still alive, but that was still unlikely. Nevertheless, no time to wonder who had been there, it was _who was there_ that mattered.

He calmly made his way up the stairs and, by intuition, headed towards the west wing. Wesker came to realize how the outlook of the front hall belied the actual state of the mansion. There were dirt stains and many walls were missing chunks of paint; certainly Spencer hadn't cared about the building's state, since it was unlikely he would bother to clean up such a vast residence.

He wandered through the mansion until he could find a way that would lead him to where Spencer was. Wesker had initially thought he would have no difficulties making his way around but as he went in deeper and explored more rooms and halls, he soon came to realize it was nothing like the old Estate, so he made way for logical reasoning. Leaving his instincts aside, Wesker took a hall to his right and followed it down, the storm outside still raging with lightning.

He couldn't help relating the weather outside to his growing anxiety; the more it had grown, the more lighting had cracked through the sky. He could've also related it to his inner dilemma, one to which he soon put an end. Why be frightened by the power he would soon acquire? It would help him reach his goals, and he certainly didn't care if the end justified the means or not. Spencer's power would be soon outmatched by his, once he deprived the old man of it.

Wesker stumbled across the only door in the hall, a big and sturdy oak door that led to a room unknown to him. With another hunch and a faint throbbing in his temples, he pushed the door open. Bingo: it was Spencer's chamber.

Wesker serenely made his way inside, quickly catching glimpse of the striking bookcases to his sides and the rusty chandelier hanging above the centre of the room. It would've been quite prestigious and impressive, but those days were already over. His gaze directed up front, he felt his heart speed up after briefly skipping a beat. There he was, the man that would give him the answers he'd sought for so very long and the man whose power Wesker would snatch away.

_How the mighty Ozwell Spencer has fallen…_

Indeed, how he'd fallen. Wesker had last seen him when he was seventy-two of age, still healthy and active; now, he was confined to a wheelchair and with a life support installed into the chair which kept him alive. Spencer turned the wheelchair around slowly to face Wesker, and those impossibly light blue eyes of him met Wesker's hidden ones, although Spencer's seemed to be boring a hole right in him.

Wesker kept at ease and impassive as they stared at each other for what it seemed years. He knew Spencer was examining him thoroughly, scrutinizing him with that intense gaze of his, yet Wesker wasn't just going to stand there and do nothing. Before he could do so though, Spencer's voice broke the silence.

"I've been waiting for you."

Just as he'd started walking, Wesker stopped in his tracks as if he'd just hit an invisible wall of trepidation. Did that mean… Spencer had known he'd come? But how? It was impossible! Wesker decided to push away the thought, although it kept screaming '_Impossible! Impossible!' _at him from the back of his mind. Spencer's lips curved into a faint smile, and Wesker suddenly felt the chilling realization sinking in.

Spencer had known _everything_ from the very beginning.

"I knew you'd come looking for me. It seems I wasn't mistaken," Spencer said lightly with a flicker of his hand. Wesker didn't like it at all and if it wasn't for his tenacity and his self-control, the clench of his fist would've belied his true feelings.

"I'm not here for idle banter, Spencer," Wesker snapped with a cool edge to his voice as he approached the old man.

"I take it you've come for answers."

Wesker obtained yet another piece of evidence of Spencer's puppetry. So he had been pulling the strings for all those years?! Had he controlled the course of Wesker's actions without him actually knowing?! He had just been another puppet under his control, those invisible strings leading him to make all those decisions, to kill so many people!

_To hell with the victims! It's outrageous! _

The blonde man stood in front of Spencer, his shadow looming over the elderly man, and Spencer had the premonition that it would all come to an end sooner than later. But he had Wesker in front of him, like the prodigal son that returned to his father.

"Answers? You've done your homework, Spencer," Wesker commented archly, stepping past the wheelchair and positioning himself next to the window. "It seems you were well prepared. Does it mean you are the real puppet master and not I?"

"You catch on quick too, Wesker. I didn't expect less coming from you," Spencer said in return in the same arch tone as him. The arrogance had come to bite him, and how infuriated Wesker felt right then, Spencer couldn't imagine. Wesker breathed in deeply, the sound muted by the lighting that suddenly struck the furious sea under the building, and he closed his eyes momentarily.

"You want to know about yourself, don't you? About your origins? About things like your name, your place of birth, your family, yes?"

Spencer's words were like daggers to Wesker, but none too strong for him to lose his composure.

"If you would so kindly start explaining, Ozwell…" Wesker's voice trailed away, leaving Spencer to flip the coin and show Wesker its dark side. As Spencer started explaining, Wesker slowly circled him in an attempt to keep his anger on a leash.

"You were made a reality through a project I myself started along a trusty colleague, the 'Wesker Children'. I had… the intention of bring a new race of humans to this world, over which I would rule. For that, I needed you and hundreds of others to make this dream come true. With the Progenitor virus, it was possible to set the project's beginning.

"You were born from highly intellectual individuals; it was intelligence like yours the one I needed. The rest of your colleagues shared the same trait and they proved to be perfect subjects. You were forced to forget about your family, about everything you were, and you adopted new identities. You were all given the surname 'Wesker' and, as such, you were indoctrinated and taught under our careful watch."

A sudden paused ensued. Spencer suffered a coughing fit which echoed through the room, a sign of his old age and his horrible state of health. It was during this short pause that Wesker waited for everything to sink in; how cruel could the truth be sometimes.

"I specifically chose you to join Umbrella because of your brilliance," Spencer continued forcedly. "You showed great progress and intelligence, as expected from you. At the same time, you befriended your fellow mate William, who would play an important role in later stages of the project.

"Near 1985, we started the second phase of the 'Wesker Children', a phase through which the best of the Children were to be selected. They were all administered a Progenitor-based experimental virus that would help in this task, be it directly or due to recommendation. I myself asked William to do this, although he didn't comply at first."

"How very curious," Wesker interjected, his tone icy. "And here I thought he was a diligent man." The sharp sarcasm caused Spencer to smirk. Oh, how delightful it'd be to leave Wesker shaken.

"Well, I eventually managed to make him do it through… quite the hard means, if I may say so," he replied, his voice dripping with wickedness. "I believe he never told you about the son he lost in a frantic attempt to avoid your fate?"

_x_

"_She's… she's really sick, Wesker. I-I don't want to lose her. Oh what the hell? I shouldn't have used you as the shoulder to cry on, sorry."_

"_Don't worry; I would've kicked you out of here had I not been in the mood. But you'll see; she'll be fine. Take a break from work and stay by her side; that should help."_

"_Are you sure?"_

"_Completely. Why did you marry her then?"_

"_I guess you're right… Okay, thanks then, I really appreciate it."_

"_No need to thank me. Just do what you have to do."_

_x_

And now, the way Wesker sharply corkscrewed around to glare at him was what belied his rage. This was the last straw! Wesker swore he'd kill Spencer whenever the time was right; for now, it wasn't in his best interest.

He remembered. What William had told him about was Annette's almost chronic illness during the first months of the year. William had been very secretive about the news, keeping certain pieces of information to himself. Wesker would've never guessed it had been due to his son's assassination, caused by Spencer himself. It had been a night when Wesker had shown himself supportive but no matter what he did, William hopelessly fell into a prolonged state of depression.

"He did lose it. After a few years, he gave you the experimental virus; he himself reported to me the night after that." Spencer continued. "This process would be the birth of a new superior breed of humans, given birth by the Progenitor virus. The 'Wesker Children' were entrusted with endless potential.

"After the selective process, only one survived: you."

Wesker stopped in front of the window, his back to Spencer, waiting for the new information to sink in.

"Are you saying I was manufactured? That I was deprived of all chances of living my _own_ life?" he asked Spencer, his voice slightly seething. God, it was still hard to take! But no matter what, Wesker would feel nothing more than rage and frustration followed by a primitive desire to _kill_ Spencer and put him out of his misery.

"I was to become a god!" exclaimed Spencer, his words followed by another set of coughs. "Creating a new world with an advanced race of human beings! However… all was lost with Raccoon City…"

Oh yes, that fateful incident in the city had been the project's information's doom: 'Mission Code: XX'. Wesker clenched his fist, controlling the surge of fury that would've most likely driven him to kill Spencer in that same instant. He lifted his gaze, looking at the storm outside, and knew it was the right moment.

The time to grasp power had come.

He breathed in deeply and exhaled, lowering his shoulders with an air of eerie, wicked stillness.

"Despite that setback," Spencer stated, "your creation still holds great significance." Then, his fragile health triggered a few more coughs from him, and he stood up from his chair with difficulty. "Now, my candle burns dimly."

_Your candle is about to be extinguished, old man,_ Wesker thought as he turned around. He felt anxious and expectant; he was _so_ very close to grasping victory, so close he could almost taste it! Just a few more moments and it would be his win, it would be checkmate and as such, the chess game would reach its climax and draw to its end.

"Ironic, isn't it?" Spencer mused, holding his balance as well as he could on shaky legs. "For one who has the right to be a god…"

He turned around, coming face-to-face with Wesker. The blonde man leaned his head forward to keep looking at Spencer over the bridge of his nose, his eyes still hidden but gleaming fiercely behind his shades. The way he tensed afterwards, levelling up his gaze to Spencer's, was fear-instilling.

"To face his own mortality…"

Those bright blue eyes of Spencer's searched for Wesker's and, with the bright lightning behind, he could only catch a small glimpse of those cat-like and fierce red eyes of his.

"The right to be a god…" Wesker echoed pensively. His lips curved into a smirk, smug and arrogant, and then fury took hold of him.

That sensation of fury was followed by a warm one, both of relief as of Spencer's blood staining half his arms and reaching his skin. He had killed a man with his bare hands, in quite the literal sense. For some reason, Wesker found himself celebrating inwardly like a sadist who was proud of his actions, and he watched how Spencer's features were paling at a rapid pace.

The candle was out.

As Spencer released a strangled gasp, Wesker was tempted to close his fist and crack his wrist as he wickedly delighted in the feeling of Spencer's warm blood. The tingling sensation that assailed his arm and his fingers was one of such intensity that he would've grinned like a crazy devil should he had been allowed to do so.

Victory was within his reach, and he had obtained it. Now, it was _his. _It was his win, his victory, his success and everything that was a synonym!

Thunder roared behind them and, lowering his lips to Spencer's ear, he whispered, "That right is now _mine_." And it even felt good saying that.

Wesker withdrew his hand from Spencer's chest and, with one last gasp, Spencer lost his balance, rolled down the stairs and fell dead, a trail of blood flowing down the corner of his mouth. Wesker neared the beginning of the small staircase and looked down on Spencer, in a literal and figurative sense.

"The right to be a god? You?"

_How dare he say that? He, a weak old man… How could he ever understand what it means to be a god?_

Wesker shook his head in disapprovement, the laughter he wanted to let out echoing in the back of his mind. He'd have his time to laugh, oh yes. Spencer was just a joke, Wesker was the real thing. He was the rightful owner of the title 'god'.

"Arrogant even until the end. Only one truly capable of being a god deserves that right!"

He stole one last glance at Spencer's lifeless corpse, his eyes narrowing fiercely behind his shades, and as thunder clapped one more time, Wesker positioned himself in front of the window again.

His endeavours had finally paid off and he had come out victorious of the battle. He knew the war was still on but right now, it had just taken a turn for the best; of that, he was certain. The chess board had been flipped, sides had changed and now he was on the winning one. Previously, Spencer had been the whites and Wesker had been the blacks, Spencer having made his first move and having determined the course and the end of this first game. Now, Wesker was the whites, ready to start another game, with another player in Spencer's place.

It was his game against the _world_ itself. And sooner than later, his knight would perform the checkmate. The game would be over soon, and he could already see the end of it.

But on top of all this excitement and anticipation, there was also his rage, reflected on reality as the raging and untamed sea that stretched out before him, the waves colliding violently against the reefs. All of the information Spencer had given him was just like those furious waves colliding against the ice wall that shielded his heart and that would prevent _everything_ from harming it. But now, they were striving to make that wall collapse and give in, and most likely, it would, for the first time in eternity.

And it did. With no hesitation, Wesker punched the wall in front of him with all his strength, dragging his knuckles across the rough surface with a brief but intense roar in fury that echoed off the walls and almost threatened to shake the building to its very foundations. He scraped his glove and his knuckles and, although the pain in his hand was trivial, it burned and throbbed with despicable cruelty. It was more than ignored.

With heavy breathing, Wesker succeeded in calming down. It was initially all so hard to accept, and he knew it'd take him time to let everything sink in.

'_Are you saying I was manufactured?'_

That had been the worst line of them all. Knowing he was nothing more than an experiment -a successful one, fortunately- but he was an experiment nevertheless, no matter how he tried to look at it. Casting away his humanity -the humanity he believed to have- had all been Spencer's intentions, not his own. Although he had to admit that it had granted him a second life, a life that hadn't started the same moment he gave Death the slip in the mansion's labs in Raccoon.

No. It started _now_.

Wesker slipped the glove off his right hand and glanced at his palm, clenching and unclenching his fist. He wondered, was this even his own body? His own hand? Was it his own brain that was sending the impulses to his muscles? Were those his own, for that matter? He didn't know. Doubts were clouding his mind for now, and they prevented him from thinking rationally.

But then, he couldn't hold back the smile that spread across his features.

Such foolish thoughts! Hadn't he just cast away his humanity for that same reason? Why was he caring about being human or not? He was a _god_! He had the power to be one, he had the right! Why would he just throw away the opportunity? If Spencer had been as foolish and stupid to allow him to become such a privileged being, such a god, then it was _his_ own mistake! He wasn't going to regret it! Wesker wasn't going to worry about it anymore!

With his smile unfaltering, Wesker slipped on the glove again with resolve. Oh, such joy… But really, why give a damn about being human when being superior granted him more power? Why waste the opportunity to be a god, to reshape the world just as he wanted? Wesker wasn't going to overlook it, to ignore it; he had killed himself once for that same reason.

Now, he can set his plan into motion. He knew it would work, his plan. With Uroboros in development, the weapon that would grant him the power to cleanse the world, to separate the chaff from the wheat, he knew he would succeed. It was all a matter of time. He'd rewrite the world's history, and nothing would impede him from doing so. If obstacles arose, he'd just destroy them.

Obstacles like Chris Redfield, who barged inside the room along with Jill Valentine as if on cue.

Wesker breathed in deeply again, turning around and greeting them with that devilish smile of his, his eyes gleaming with an intense thirst for power. And he would get it, even more than the one he had right now. He felt almost a lust-like sensation stir deep within him; right now, that desire for power burned like the wildest of fires. He would succeed, he _knew_ he would.

The time had come to end the next battle. The time had come for him to prevail.

* * *

_A/N: And this story has reached its end. Sorry people, but it has. It has been delightfully wonderful to write this, so I'm sad to say I'm done. As you've seen, I've added a small interpretation on William's involvement in the 'Wesker Children' project. _

_To keep it short: he was going to have a son and when Spencer asked him to give Wesker the virus, he refused to do so. As such, Spencer took matters into his own hands and poisoned Annette, causing her to lose the baby and to fall sick. Sherry came later, though, so what happens next is canonical._

_I hope you enjoyed reading this. Until next time!^^  
_


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